Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Umbrella

Gun metal finish. The sky is heavy. Somewhere on the stultifying umbrella, light peeps through slits. Lopesh sights the sun. Instead of reciprocating the admirer, the star lights up his misgivings.
"Why are you pissed off? what is wrong with you?." Nobody is concerned about Lopesh as today someone feigns sorrow to hog all the attention.
Today someone patronizes him. Today someone snubs his inquiries. Lopesh sips tea and broods over his misadventures in slow motion.
He didn't score any goals but still played a decent game. "Good strike," even the other team's player applauded his 40-yard effort on goal. "Dude, you should throw us a treat, you scored a hat-trick and even scored one for the other team," Lopesh bantered his teammate in the morning. Overall he was in a fine mood. The football match exhausted him but it flushed his body with endorphins. He was happy.
Ear-splitting laughter, colgate smile, there was nothing to suggest that this boy was on the edge.
With two pillows, two mattresses and two slits on his wrist, Lopesh lays in an overcooked grave. He failed to cut his veins the first time after he managed a shallow cut with the tremoring knife in his hand. The next time he did not think much; just yanked the blade across his arteries.
"Lopesh, sorry dude, we were just playing a prank on you. I told them that we will all ignore you today just for fun," his voice mail answered.
Only if he had mulled over it, the star was on its way.



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